


Presents

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Chocolate, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Necklaces, No Plot/Plotless, Presents, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera hates Valentine’s Day." Gokudera is grumpier than usual, and Yamamoto is happier than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Gokudera  _hates_  Valentine’s Day.

There is no part of the event that isn’t an enormous pain. There’s the obligatory affection turned meaningless by the requirements of the day, the constant kissing from official couples and constant sighing from those as yet unclaimed, and that’s not even starting in on the girls. Gokudera has become used to it, over the last few years, the steady stream of hopeful suitors who come by his desk with box after box of chocolates, presents, lunches, each wrapped more elaborately than the last as if he might choose someone based on their ability to wrap a gift. He refuses, as he always does, more and more aggressively with each new girl until he’s almost shouting at the last few, not even looking up to see what they are holding out.

It’s not just the interruptions that are grating on his nerves, although they certainly aren’t helping. Far more frustrating is the laughter from behind him, at the end of the row where Yamamoto is dealing with his own crowd of hopefuls. It’s not that he’s accepting the gifts -- Gokudera can hear the clear carrying sound of his voice, the “Sorry, I’m dating someone else!” -- but it’s  _distracting_ , the chatter of the girls grating down his spine like the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard, and every time Yamamoto laughs his insistence that, yes, he is taken, it comes with a tingle of visceral, possessive satisfaction that entirely derails Gokudera’s facade of irritation. He resists the urge to turn around, fights back the impulse to catch Yamamoto’s eye, but he can feel the other’s gaze skim against the back of his head every few minutes, warm as if Yamamoto is reaching out to brush his fingers against Gokudera’s skin.

It’s no better at lunch. Gokudera gets caught in a crowd as soon as class ends, only breaks free by actively shoving his way past his admirers. Yamamoto is laughing apologies, ruffling a hand through his hair and trying to push proffered gifts away, but his smile is trapping him in place, would keep him there all lunch except that Gokudera wades through the girls to grab at his sleeve.

“Come  _on_.” He moves without meeting anyone’s gaze, dragging Yamamoto forcibly through the crowd, and the admirers part before him, offering no more than verbal protest. Then they’re free, out of the classroom and on the stairs to the roof, and Gokudera can take a deep breath again.

“Ha, thanks, Gokudera,” Yamamoto says. He twists his hand in Gokudera’s hold, turns his wrist free so he can slide his fingers to lace with the other boy’s. “I thought I was going to be there all day.”

“Don’t hold my hand at  _school_ ,” Gokudera snaps, but when he goes to pull his hand free all he does is draw Yamamoto in closer to him, so the other boy’s shoulder bumps his, and Yamamoto is laughing and Gokudera doesn’t have the energy left to shove him away. There’s no one around anyway, the shadows of the stairway give them the shape of concealment if not the truth, and the warmth of Yamamoto’s hand is soothing the sharp edge of jealousy under Gokudera’s skin. He huffs wordless resignation, lets his almost-pull relax into capitulation, and Yamamoto leans in at his shoulder, presses himself in against Gokudera’s arm as they take the stairs until he’s all but hanging off the other boy as they make it out to the roof.

They have it to themselves, for a rarity. Usually Ryohei is out here when they make it up the stairs, or Tsuna with or without Kyoko, but Valentine’s Day means everyone else is paired off too, finding as much seclusion as they can in the corner of classrooms or the edges of hallways. The sunlight is clear, for all that the air still has the sharp bite of winter, and Yamamoto is leaning in even closer as soon as he sees that they’re alone. The weight of the other boy against Gokudera more than makes up for the cold of the air at his skin, settles contentment into the pattern of his breathing; he doesn’t say anything aloud, but when he moves to lean against the wind-cooled links of the fence he can relax against the support without the ache of anxiety across his shoulders.

Then “I have something for you,” Yamamoto says against his shoulder, and all Gokudera’s tension comes back as if it had never left.

“No way,” he says, low and growling in his throat, and shoves at Yamamoto’s arm. Yamamoto gives in to the impact, leans back in response to the force, but he comes back a moment later, smiling like Gokudera had kissed him instead of pushed him, and Gokudera has to look away and glare across the roof to keep his hold on his irritation.

“You said we wouldn’t do anything.” He’s biting the words off, letting each of them snap out over his tongue, but Yamamoto’s smile isn’t flickering and he’s not leaning away even as he fumbles in the pocket of his jacket.

“I didn’t say that,” Yamamoto points out, looking away so he can fish whatever is in  his pocket out. “You said you didn’t want anything.” It’s a box, smaller than any of the brightly colored packages their classmates offered Gokudera earlier -- there’s no reason it should tighten his chest like a fist around his heart, no reason it should drop his sense of gravity out from under him.

“But I wanted to give you something,” Yamamoto is saying, holding out the neatly-wrapped gift while Gokudera glares at the smooth lines of paper and ribbon like they form the shape of an insult. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Gokudera growls. He reaches out to take the present -- only because Yamamoto won’t stop offering until he does -- and snatches his hand free of Yamamoto’s hold so he can tug at the ribbon. “It had better not be anything big.”

“It’s not,” Yamamoto admits as the paper gives way to reveal the box underneath. Gokudera recognizes it, but he pulls the lid off anyway, just so he can glare at the dark of the chocolates within. “Just the traditional thing.” He’s smiling, leaning in close like he’s expecting a kiss. “Since you refuse them all day from everyone else.”

“Of course I do,” Gokudera snaps. “I’m not interested in any of them.” He glances sideways, hisses at the bright of Yamamoto’s smile. “You had better not be accepting any of those presents yourself.”

“I’m not,” Yamamoto declares. “You’re the only person I’m interested in.”

“I’d better be.” Gokudera looks back at the chocolates, picks one up consideringly. “Did you buy these?”

“Made them!” Yamamoto declares. “I did a lot of taste tests, but those ones turned out the best.”

“You want me to eat something you  _made_?” Gokudera eyes the candy with significantly more trepidation. “I’d rather have dinner with my sister.”

“Come on, Hayato,” Yamamoto laughs, apparently unfazed by Gokudera’s insults. “Just try it.”

“Don’t call me that in public,” Gokudera hisses, but he lifts the chocolate to his mouth anyway, bites into it all at once to avoid the stress of anticipation.

It’s good. It’s  _really_  good. Gokudera knows Yamamoto’s taste in chocolate runs towards sweet and melty, the sort of bland sugary taste he abhors himself. But this is rich and heavy, dissolving into layers of flavor on his tongue and so dark it tastes more sour than it does sweet. Gokudera has no idea how Yamamoto managed to make these -- he must have had help, from Kyoko or maybe from his dad -- but he can’t even manage an imitation of irritation, is certain that the quick inhale of appreciation he can’t restrain doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Fuck,” he says, fast, before Yamamoto can get out more than a wordless chirp of delight at his reaction, shoves the lid back on the box and pushes it aside.

“Is it good?” Yamamoto presses. He’s turned in so far he’s more leaning against Gokudera than he is sitting on his own, his eyes fixed on the other boy’s face. “Do you like them?”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps without looking at him. “Idiot. I thought you said you tasted them already.” That sidetracks Yamamoto into a laugh, the sound like the steady ping of rain against a roof, and that gives Gokudera enough time to reach into his pocket and fish out what he wasn’t sure, until now, he would offer at all.

“Here.” He shoves it at Yamamoto, letting go almost before Yamamoto’s hands are out to catch the object. “I didn’t wrap it,” he says without looking to see the way Yamamoto’s eyes go soft and shocked at the weight in his palms. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to keep it.” His skin is starting to flush, his cheeks burning from the rush of blood in his veins rather than the heat of the winter sunlight. He stares at his feet instead of at Yamamoto, though he can feel the other’s stunned gaze on his features. It’s safer to watch the toes of his sneakers scuff against the rooftop, the ordinary sight made fascinating compared to the alternative. “Didn’t want to wrap something that was just a disappointment.”

“It’s not a disappointment,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera flinches at the sound of his voice; even with his careful avoidance of the other’s eyes, his tone is more than soft enough to crest Gokudera’s blush hotter out over his face. He sounds breathless, awestruck, like he can’t process what he’s seeing, and this was  _exactly_  what Gokudera was afraid of. “It’s perfect.”

“I didn’t go looking for it,” Gokudera says, clearing his throat so hard it aches. “Don’t give me the credit for it, it was just luck that I saw it.” He doesn’t explain the way his head had snapped around at the glint of silver off a wing in a store window, the way he hadn’t asked the price when he came in to demand the pendant set out for display. It was too much to pass up, the almost-blue shine off the metal marking out the shape of a swallow in flight, the deep V of the wings making it something remarkable in spite of the simple design.

The dark cord it’s hanging from is one of Gokudera’s own. He doesn’t say anything about that either.

“You don’t even wear jewelry anyway,” he’s saying to his feet, kicking harder at the ground until he can feel the impact running almost-painful up his heels. “It’s stupid, you don’t have to pretend to like it.”

There’s a laugh, sharp with delight as Yamamoto shifts, pulls away for a moment. Gokudera takes a breath, makes a futile attempt to calm the embarrassed thud of his heart against his chest; he’s still forcing himself through a deep, slow breath when Yamamoto leans back in to bump himself against Gokudera’s shoulder.

“Hayato.”

Gokudera can’t not look at that. He steels himself into a frown, stiffens his shoulders with as much resistance as he can muster, and looks sideways.

Yamamoto is smiling at him, the expression the more devastating from close-up. Gokudera’s gaze drops to the soft of his mouth, the delight parting his lips by a half-inch, and then down, farther, following the dark line of the cord against the other’s neck to the shine of the swallow pendant against his dark sweater.

“It’s perfect,” Yamamoto says, his voice meltingly soft in a way that gives Gokudera a shiver of premonition, a breath of warning before the other leans in closer, his eyelashes fluttering shut as he bumps his mouth to the edge of Gokudera’s cheek and murmurs, “I love you.”

He’s still smiling when Gokudera throws his arm out to shove him away, reflexive reaction to the words or the action, he’s not sure. Yamamoto falls back at the impact, the fence rattling as his shoulders hit it; his eyes are still soft, his lips still parted when Gokudera pushes in to kiss him hard against the resistance at his back. It’s easier than trying to form coherency on his tongue, easier to push the words he can’t say against Yamamoto’s lips instead, translate them in the form of heat instead of sound. Yamamoto laughs against his mouth, licks against Gokudera’s lower lip before he pulls back for a moment. Gokudera is afraid for a moment he’s going to repeat himself, isn’t sure the over-adrenalined pound of his heart will let him breathe at all if he does.

“You taste like chocolate,” is what Yamamoto says instead, complete inanity that brings a startled bark of laughter over Gokudera’s lips.

“Yeah, I bet,” and he leans back in, pushing against Yamamoto’s unresisting shoulders to hold him in place for a longer kiss.

The words all mean the same thing, in the end, the same as Gokudera’s fingers curling into Yamamoto’s shirt and his tongue against Yamamoto’s lips. With the sunlight against his skin and Yamamoto laughing against his mouth, Gokudera can let himself admit that, in the safety of his own head.

It is Valentine’s Day, after all.


End file.
